


Appearances

by days4daisy



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Blood, Forced to enjoy it, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Knives, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rapist Praising the Victim, Rimming, Rope Bondage, Sex Pollen, Sexual Repression, unwanted arousal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-11-30 05:57:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11457396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: “Do you want to sin, doctor?” Ethan’s smile is strange, a touch too fond.





	Appearances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plutonianshores](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutonianshores/gifts).



> Thank you for the enticing Penny Dreadful prompts! I hope you enjoy this little treat :)

Mister Gray’s estate is a spectacle. Drink flows, music swells, and dapper company waltzes across imported tile.

Sir Malcolm has disappeared without a clue as to what, if anything, Victor is doing here. Worse, Malcolm was inconsiderate enough to leave him alone with Mister Chandler. The American is canvassing the room with those brooding eyes of his.

Beyond their introduction to the manor’s owner, the night has been dull. Even the patonage is trifling. Elaborate for sure, but hardly worth the scandalous reputation that precedes Mister Gray’s gatherings.

“What are we even doing here?” Victor mutters. “Did he say anything to you?”

Ethan shakes his head. “Not a thing. And now he’s gone, or so it seems.”

“Marvelous.” Victor scowls and sips from his champagne flute. “I’m waiting half an hour, then I’m done with this. I have better things to do with my time.”

“My, my, that self-importance.” Ethan’s smile is small and baiting. “What better things do you have to do, doctor?”

“Every second is precious to a man of science,” Victor grumbles. “Something you’d know nothing about.”

“I’m sure that I don’t,” Ethan agrees wryly. He scrapes teeth across his bottom lip. It comes away the slightest bit damp, likely soft to the taste...

Victor frowns. After a moment of deliberation, he places his half-full glass on the tray of a passing server. At Ethan’s questioning look, he mumbles, “I believe I’ve had my fill for the evening.”

***

Half an hour passes, but Victor is no closer to the door.

He doesn’t feel right, but he’s yet to put a finger on why. It could be the gathering itself. It's bad enough to feel out of place in his own bed, let alone inside a crowd with eyes for everything except him. But Victor is no stranger to the restlessness of his heart. What he feels now is different. A fog of some sort between his mind and reality. He dabs his brow with a handkerchief and wonders why he has not removed himself from this house.

What’s worse, Ethan is not himself. He is, in a word, tolerable.

Ethan lingers by Victor’s side, a calm eye on the proceedings. Every once in awhile, he glances at Victor. “Are you ok?” he asks.

“Do you feel different?”

Ethan’s frown deepens. Without permission, he drapes a hand over Victor’s forehead. Victor musters a glower to cover his knees nearly buckling. “You should go,” Ethan suggests slowly. “Malcolm’s around. Whatever we're here for, it’s either not coming or he and I’ll have it in hand-”

“You're ridiculous,” Victor snaps. “I’m perfectly all right.”

Ethan’s frown becomes a grin, the expression as charming as it is infuriating. Victor huffs off his anger while Ethan drains the remains of his champagne. He has a perfect neck. Long and clean, the perfect bob of Adam’s apple above the bow of his tux. Victor shuts his eyes against the thought.

“Night’ll be over before you know it,” Ethan promises. If only this were true.

***

Victor is going mad.

He knows who he is. He knows his temperament and persuasions. Victor fancies himself a man of poetry, an appreciator of the physical. But it is a woman's touch he yearns for, not a man’s.

And if he _were_ to entertain a man’s fancy, the last person's he would seek would be Ethan Chandler, for God’s sake.

And if, on some lark, he _were_ to seek Mister Chandler’s favor, he would never do so in a place like this. A house of appearance lorded over by a man as vacant as the shed skin of a snake.

And yet, and yet.

Victor has broken into a sweat. He holds two fingers to the pulse point under his jaw. His heart rate is elevated. Victor gulps down air, and it reminds him too well of Mister Chandler beside him. The smell of him, spiced and entirely unlike a woman. This is impossible.

“Victor,” Ethan sighs. That voice… Victor pictures his own name breathed between his legs. Strong hands on his thighs, lips wound around his cock.

But Victor has no interest in men. He has no interest in this man in particular. It's this house. The place is making him lose his mind. “What is your opinion on faith, Ethan?”

Ethan raises a brow. Perhaps he wonders whether the question merits a serious response. Victor isn't sure himself. “I believe,” Ethan answers with caution, “but it's hard sometimes. You're an atheist, we've established.”

“A curse, in some respects,” Victor mumbles. “A condition governed by the laws of nature, but not by a higher standard.”

He senses Ethan's amusement. “Are you in need of more rules?”

Victor shivers. What blessedly obscene rules Ethan could mastermind if he were so inclined. Which he is not, and neither is Victor. It's this fever, this temporary spell of madness.

“What is sin to a man of science?” Victor mutters in a rush. “A tool of guilt to keep the masses in line, nothing more. Until we need… Until ethical standards become necessary for survival.”

“Do you want to sin, doctor?” Ethan’s smile is strange, a touch too fond.

“None of your concern,” Victor snarls. A mortifying heat creeps to his face.

Ethan chuckles. “I suppose not.”

Victor despises Americans. Simple, brash, and foolish. Ethan epitomizes every stereotype of the breed. This is how Victor knows he's gone mad. He has no investment in Ethan Chandler, this whole affliction is a farce!

“Are you well, Doctor Frankenstein?” Mister Gray approaches, smile tinged with concern.

“He's all right,” Ethan inserts before Victor can speak for himself. “Room’s getting to him.”

“It is a touch warm, isn't it?” Dorian muses. “Can't be helped, I'm afraid, but conditions will improve shortly.”

The words are oddly ominous. Victor starts to ask after them, but Dorian turns before he can. His eyes settle on Ethan, mouth tilted with interest. “And you, Mister Chandler? Are you enjoying yourself?”

“You throw a grand party, Mister Gray.”

“A fine affair to complement finer company.” A world of insinuation stretches behind Dorian’s smile. To Victor’s shock, Ethan responds, possibility hummed behind pressed lips. Dorian looks between Ethan and Victor. “You both interest me,” he admits kindly. “I do hope you'll stay for the evening’s finale.”

“What finale?” Victor’s own voice stuns him. Ravaged, gravel and unsteady. He feels his own exposure as strongly as Ethan’s sudden attention. A snapped, startled look, and a curious tongue across his lips. Victor can't quite bite back his hiss. Everything is out of control, the most frightening scenario for a scientist. He does not understand this. He does not understand any of it!

“My good doctor.” Victor jumps at the hand that cups his cheek. Dorian’s skin is smooth and cold. “Quite the spell you've come under.”

“I'm fine,” Victor grumbles, managing to sound more like himself.

“He's ok,” Ethan echoes, and slides a supporting arm around Victor’s waist. He's warm and smells of sin. Victor finds himself, in horror, sagging against his side.

“Of course he is.” Dorian leans closer, speaking inches from Victor’s ear. “Rest, doctor. I would love for you to see this through to the end.” He's gone before Victor can demand to know what he means.

“You sure you're all right?” Ethan asks once he departs. “Don't seem like yourself.”

“I don't…” Victor  _isn't_ himself. But he can't admit to it, too much weakness. Victor glares at the retreating back of Mister Gray. “Something is wrong here,” he mutters. “With him.”

“You might be right.” Ethan’s hand is in the small of his back. Combs of long fingers under his coat.

“What are you-”

“It's fine,” Ethan assures him, and he seals it with a kiss. A touch of lips so reverent that Victor's breath stutters out of him. Victor should be screaming. He should be shoving Ethan off and shouting bloody murder! But his humiliation becomes wonder, his offense grows to longing. Ethan arches a brow. “Hey,” he murmurs, “you-”

He can't finish because Victor kisses him again. Ethan chuckles and winds arms around his waist.

“This isn't me,” Victor insists weakly.

“Sure feels like you, doc,” Ethan murmurs, all twang and hunger. “Sure tastes like you.” Victor sighs defeat.

He does not see the smile behind them. Small, controlled, and not at all surprised.

***

Victor is in a dream. Some exquisite, unsettling vision outside the realm of sense.

It's the only way he can explain the soreness of his lips and his hands buried deep inside the suit of Ethan Chandler. He tries to hold on to reason, protests, “I have no interest in men. This is absurd!” But the absurdity is in the statement. His forehead creases puzzlement before the words leave his mouth. How can he claim no interest? And why? Why deny himself something sought for so long? His lips swelled pink, his skin warm...

Ethan stands over him, smile on a mouth kissed to full red. He hooks a thumb under Victor’s jaw, strokes a soft line under his chin. “We can stop,” Ethan suggests. His husk-laced voice is a fantasy all its own. Victor nods up to steal a new kiss.

The wall on Victor’s back has been replaced by hands. Inexperienced in touch, it consumes Victor now. His body shivers like a plucked string. “Shouldn't we find Sir Malcolm,” Victor blurts, a last ditch effort for sanity. He is both relieved and discouraged when Ethan actually stops.

A frown crosses Ethan’s face. “That's right,” he murmurs as if waking from a deep sleep. “He isn't back...” His confusion dips to the arms he still has around Victor, the disheveled pull of their clothes.

“We should get out of here,” Victor insists. “Something isn't right.”

“There you are.” They're hailed before they can make good on Victor’s suggestion. Dorian Gray looks on, a smile of mild interest and an untouched flute of champagne in hand. “I thought I might not catch you.”

“Good timing, Mister Gray.” Ethan untangles himself from Victor. “We were just leaving.” Loathsome as he can be, Victor is glad for Ethan's boldness now. His ‘more robust brother’ is indeed that - strong and intimidating.

Dorian does not appear moved by Ethan’s unspoken threat. “So soon? The night is young.”

“For certain company,” Ethan mutters.

“You feel disrespected,” Dorian acknowledges, with a nod as sincere as it is false. “It wasn’t my intent. As host, I’m afraid I’m forced to spread my attention thin. But please trust,” he places a hand on Ethan’s arm. Ethan stiffens. “You’ve been my sole interest from the beginning.”

“Yes well, our sole interest is getting the hell out of here,” Victor grumbles. He starts for the door, but stops when he realizes he’s walking alone. Ethan has not moved, eyes on Dorian’s hand. “Ethan,” Victor hisses. “Let’s go. Now. _Ethan_.”

How is it that their scene has not stopped the party? Polite chatter and laughter continue without a blink. Dancers waltz, and the music swells to a deafening peak.

“Do you recognize it?” Dorian whispers. “Wagner. It speaks to the soul, doesn’t it?”

Victor’s skin prickles. “Ethan,” he forces out. “We need to go.”

Dorian ignores him. “You’re a man of many depths, Mister Chandler," he praises. "The American. You play your part well. But there’s more to you. I can see it.”

“Yes,” Ethan mumbles, barely audible over the room’s clamor. When Dorian kisses him, he does nothing to stop it. He sucks in a breath Victor can hear from where he stands.

Victor misses Ethan’s hands, he misses his lips. He sees the mysterious allure in the slender body of Mister Gray. Heat creeps under the collar of his tuxedo.

Victor starts again for the door. He feels for Ethan and he worries for Sir Malcolm, but he needs to be out of here. He needs to be free, before-

“Victor.” Ethan’s voice is too soft to be real.  _He’s forcing Ethan to do it,_ Victor thinks helplessly. Dorian knows Victor’s weakness and how to exploit it. He needs to get out of here. He needs to- “Stay, please,” Ethan says.

Wagner spills over, and feet sway in perfect time. Victor feels an impossible pull. His body, his heart, his mind; everything becomes a blur. Victor needs, nothing else. He needs now.

“Would you like to come upstairs?” Dorian asks, addressed to both.

To Victor, it sounds like the most wonderful idea in the world.

***

Victor does not know how he arrived in the master bedroom.

He lies on sheets of the finest silk. Around him, artwork is arranged in an array of contrasting yet somehow complementary styles. The pieces wear gold frames, which Victor has no doubt are true gold. A vanity sits against the wall, red oak bearing carved vines and blossoms. Its face is accented in greens, whites, and pinks. Lilies, he thinks. The ceiling is white and vast, a theater of shadow and nearby flame. A candelabra, gold as well, bears one dozen candles. Scented with something? Victor smells spring. Lavender. It mingles with the musk of some richer sin, bodies tangled in a pleasure Victor has not yet known.

Victor feels a chill. It reminds him that his...clothes are off. He frowns and lifts his head. His body, in all its fragileness, lies exposed on the bed. The sheets beneath him are rose petal red; Victor appears even paler atop them. He notes his own nipples, hardened pink. Goosebumps fleck down his chest. His cock is elevated and flushed with desire.

He starts to sit up, but restriction at his wrists stops him. A scratch of denial. He glances to the side, eyes widened when he finds his right arm bound by rope. His left is too. And his ankles, legs stretched wide. Is this Dorian Gray’s doing? What has he done with Ethan and Sir Malcolm?

“Ah, there you are.” Victor’s stomach twists. Dorian's smile, once vapid, now reveals its true colors. Small and predatory, eyes sharpened in the low light. “We were afraid we’d lost you for a moment, doctor.”

Dorian's suit has been replaced by a black silk robe. When he leans in, it droops, bare chest beneath.

“What is this?” Victor demands, trying to hide the fear from his voice. “Untie me this instant.”

“It’s for your own protection.”

Victor’s heart hammers in his chest. “Protection from what?”

Dorian rests a hand on Victor's stomach. Soft and manicured. Too perfect to be real. “Yourself,” Dorian explains. “It’s your absence of touch. I noticed it early. You are affected in ways I did not intend.”

Sweat runs cold down Victor’s brow. "Affected by what?”

“I apologize,” Dorian says simply. “It wasn’t my intent. I’d only hoped we could get to know each other.”

“Yes well,” Victor’s laugh rasps with fear and anger, “I have no desire to know you, Mister Gray. Not like this. Let me out of here.”

Dorian's head tilts. “Fascinating,” he murmurs. “It’s buried deep, isn’t it?”

Victor pulls at his bonds. “What the hell are you going on about?” he barks. “What have you done to Sir Malcolm and Ethan?”

“I’ve done nothing to anyone,” Dorian assures him. “If I were to hazard a guess, Sir Malcolm Murray has found his way home without a hitch. Undressed by now, I'd wager, about to tuck into his own bed.”

Dorian seizes Victor without warning, hand cool around his cock. Offense clips in the back of Victor’s throat. He twists his head, willing himself to shrink into the mattress. His erection does not register the violation. It pulses hot in Dorian’s hand, interest twitched at the sudden touch. Victor groans misery against his shoulder.

“Fascinating,” Dorian whispers.

“I don’t want this.” Victor’s words crack. “I won’t report anything to the police, I swear on my life. I won’t tell a soul. Just let me go.”

“Hey.” That voice, that awful voice... Victor chews a lip and squeezes his eyes shut. New goosebumps blister down his skin.

His breath grits out when far-too-gentle fingers trace his face from temple to chin. A thumb coaxes Victor’s lip from between his teeth. “Quit it,” Ethan murmurs. “You’ll cut right through.”

Victor tucks his face as close to his own shoulder as he can manage. He can’t look at Ethan. If he looks, whatever madness Dorian infected him with will ruin him again. “I don’t want this,” he insists, pleading. “ _You_ don’t want this. You’re a man of faith, you told me so. You have no interest in such things.”

Mortified, Victor realizes that his protests have all swung in Ethan’s direction. He’s run through the excuses for his own desires.

“Victor.” Victor gasps at the unexpected nudge of lips against his own. Warm and damp, teased across his bite-sore mouth. “Does it feel like I have no interest?” Ethan's words are smooth as brandy. Lust pulses hot under the hand still wound around Victor's cock.

 _Dorian’s hand_ , Victor recalls, frantic. He clings to the feeling of violation that froze him less than a minute ago. But it’s fading. He feels Ethan smile. All heat, shifting closer. Victor’s body flushes with renewed fever. He tugs at the ropes, wanting to tangle hands in Ethan’s hair, experience his body without clothes to hinder.

This is wrong. Victor does not favor men. He does not want to kiss men. He does not want to touch men. He does not want Ethan Chandler. This is not who he is. This is wrong. This is insanity. This is… He isn’t…

“Do you want me?” Victor’s eyes open. Ethan’s gaze is dark and focused only on him. His mouth, damp and swollen. His skin, pale and hard.

Built strong and long, Ethan is the breed of man Victor always wanted to be. He hates the type on sight. Victor baits them with pursuits of the mind, parades his knowledge before them like a peacock.

Victor always wanted to be Ethan Chandler. In lieu of this impossibility...

“Yes,” Victor mumbles. “Yes, I want you.” The words make his stomach churn. Miserable, defeated.

Something warm and slick dribbles down his cock. He’s urged in a hand, a touch known only in the privacy of Victor’s bedroom before now. Victor gasps. “It’s all right,” Ethan assures, amusement nibbled into his jaw. He traces a thumb across Victor’s cheek. Victor feels how awful and pink his face must be.

“Don’t mock me,” Victor forces out. The hand rides up his cock, loose and careful. Victor’s pleasure cracks in a startled hiss. Need shudders through his legs. Instinctively, he tries to shrink from Dorian's hand. Dorian squeezes, and Victor groans weakly.

“I’m not,” Ethan says. Victor follows the sound, a brief nuzzle of a nose.

A thumb grazes the tip, a dip of pressure into the slit. Victor jerks in his binds with a strangled yelp. He tenses at his own disobedient body; his cock throbs in Dorian’s hand.

“Don't touch me,” Victor hisses at Dorian. His fear mounts when Ethan and Dorian share a look. Like two scientists discussing next steps while the lab rat lies in wait. “I don’t want you,” Victor spits, louder. He pulls at the rope; roughness cuts into his wrists and ankles.

He spasms relief when his shaft is unhanded. Glossed in oil, bobbing hard and apple-red. The satisfaction is short-lived, lost to Ethan’s mouth touching his chin. “What do you want, Victor?” he asks.

“I want to be out of here,” Victor tells him. His breath catches as lips graze his throat. “Cut me loose. Please.”

“We can’t do that,” Ethan says, laced in apology. “You could hurt yourself. Didn’t you hear Dorian?” His voice is warm and damp.

“Dorian is a monster,” Victor snarls. Who knows better than Victor that monsters do exist? Some created by man, others born of what they create...

He sees the glint in Dorian’s eyes as he circles the bed. His robe pools around his waist as he sits beside Victor. There is nothing underneath.

Ethan’s mouth coils sudden and hot around a nipple. He gathers the bud between curled lips, drags his tongue along the flat. Victor’s back bridges from the mattress. He groans when Ethan's thumb attends to the other. Calloused and sharp. His toes curl helplessly.

“What do you really want, Victor?” Ethan's words whisper hot against skin that has never had this attention.

Fingers lace through Victor’s hair; Dorian’s hand, soothing him like a mutt. Fury and embarrassment twist in his gut. He gasps at Ethan’s tongue dragged up his ribcage. Teeth follow.

“I want this to be over,” Victor mumbles.

A chuckle makes bile rise. “Enjoy the journey, doctor.” Dorian reminds him.

A larger hand wraps around Victor's cock. Ethan urges his erection from base to tip. Lips and exhales ghost down Victor's stomach. “You need to loosen up,” Ethan tells him, and Dorian hums agreement.

Nausea flips Victor's stomach. He tries to turn his head, gasping when he's drawn back by yanked hair. His neck is opened to the clasp of Dorian’s mouth.

“Easy,” Ethan soothes. “Relax.”

Victor is not sure what he is expecting, but Ethan’s tongue against his hole isn’t it. Ethan’s hair strokes inside his legs, his mouth hot and wet. Victor makes a sound he did not know himself capable of.

“You’ve got to relax, Victor.” His reaction must be as startling as the sensation; Ethan sounds a touch concerned.

Yes, Victor must relax, because now he knows what Ethan intends to do to him. He knows what Dorian intends to _watch_ Ethan do.

“My dear doctor,” Dorian murmurs.

But it's too late. Tears hot and humiliating streak down Victor's face. He buries himself as close to his pillow as he can muster, gulping back sobs.

His many years of dreaming of this very moment - and this is his first touch. Without his permission. By a man. One who would want nothing to do with Victor if not for his own madness. If only Victor's Creature could see him now. How he would laugh at this misfortune.

“It’ll get better,” Ethan promises. “Stay with me, Victor ” Hands press against Victor's thighs. He hisses at the wrongness of it.

Ethan is patient. He tastes Victor with slow sweeps of his tongue, urging virgin muscle to loosen. Drying tears leave salt on Victor's face. Dorian chips at a smear.

Victor dares to glower at him through red eyes. “We will kill you for this,” he whispers.

Dorian’s expression is soft as ever. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

Victor shudders at the implications, and at the tongue that delves deeper. A gentle thrusted rhythm eases him open. Ethan’s mustache scratches delicate skin. Need, unwanted, throbs through Victor’s body.

Above him, Dorian watches. Patient fingers draw across Victor's forehead, between his eyes, down the bridge of his nose. They pluck his lips back like peeled rose petals.

_”He loves me, he loves me not.”_

_”No, Victor,” mother laughed kindly. “‘She loves me.’ You're a boy.”_

The hand pushes past Victor's open lips. Four fingers slide in to the second knuckle.

Instinct compels Victor. He clamps down hard. Blood bursts into his mouth. Dorian withdraws his hand as from bathwater a bit too cool. He looks at his own torn skin, head tilted in wonder. Blood trickles onto Victor's face. Victor starts to recoil but freezes when something sharp presses against his neck. Dorian’s uninjured hand holds a blade, short but pointed enough to act. “Be a good boy and clean up your mess, would you, doctor?”

Victor swallows back panic. Dorian wouldn’t dare, not with Ethan here. But...Ethan is in another world. He hasn’t stopped. Index fingers gently stretch Victor's mouth-slick walls. Victor chokes, pleasure and terror making his heart constrict in his chest. He breaks into a fresh sweat.

Shuddering, Victor opens his mouth, and Dorian plunges his hand inside. Blood floods his tastebuds. Victor gags, whimpering at the blade cutting closer to his throat. He forces his mouth to close around Dorian’s hand. Makes himself suck on the bleeding skin. Copper dribbles down his tongue, thickens in his throat. Victor moans sickly, color draining from his face. 

“There you are,” Dorian encourages. He wiggles his broken fingers, sends a gush of blood down Victor’s throat. Fresh tears sting Victor's eyes.

Ethan is oblivious. He eases fingers past the crown, urging Victor wider. Victor trembles open like an ancient door unlocked. Ethan sighs approval, rewards him with his tongue. Hot and silk. Victor’s pleasure burns hot and sudden. He whimpers around Dorian’s hand, chokes on his blood.

A flash of pain at his neck freezes him in horror. A drop of his own blood slips down his neck. “Careful,” Dorian chides. “The blade is sharp.” It's a small, simple knife with a hilt dressed in black leather. Dorian licks Victor's blood from it, tongue stained red.

Mercifully, Dorian removes his hand from Victor’s mouth. The broken fingers drape over Victor's lips like a cage. Victor squeezes his eyes shut against his own revulsion. Sick as he feels, he can’t choke back his gasp when Ethan’s mouth leaves him. His hole is wet and gaping.

“Mister Chandler,” Dorian bids, bottle of oil in hand. His broken fingers smear Victor's mouth red like a child experimenting with lipstick. Victor hisses beneath him, trying not to look at Ethan scaling the bed to sit beside them.

But he's too drawn to the invitation of Ethan’s body unclothed. Pale as a crisp winter day, the toil of his labor written in enticing lines. His cock is heavy and blushed under the hand Dorian winds around him. Ethan groans, eyes fluttering, a moment of weakness so delicious that Victor can only stare.

Dorian pursues him with a smile, rising to his knees. When his mouth meets Ethan’s, Ethan's hands frame his face. Victor grimaces, wondering if Ethan can taste his blood in Dorian’s mouth. Dorian strokes him, slick sounds of his fist answered by a mumble of approval. Dorian nuzzles through his hair, teeth and lips snagging his ear.

Ethan's eyes meet Victor’s, mouth still covered by Dorian’s stained fingers. Victor knows Ethan isn’t himself, because it’s fondness and not alarm that registers on Ethan’s face. “He’s made a mess of you, hasn’t he?” The words catch. His breath puffs out, labored and hungry. Victor gulps air under Dorian’s fingers. Tastes the salt of skin and the metal of his blood.

“I do wonder,” Dorian murmurs, “if you would bleed as nicely, Mister Chandler?” Victor goes cold. He struggles in the ropes, hissed protests against fingers scrubbed violently against his mouth.

Ethan answers Dorian with an affectionate nuzzle. “Try it,” he says, smiling, “and I’ll rip your throat out.” For the first time, Dorian goes still, blinking his surprise.

“Such secrets, both of you.” Dorian sounds impressed. He releases Ethan’s shaft, thick and glistening. “Please,” he says.

Ethan removes himself to the foot of the bed. Victor feels the dip of Ethan’s weight. “Mister Chandler,” Victor whispers, muffled by Dorian’s hand. “Ethan, _please_.”

“Dorian,” Ethan murmurs. At his unspoken request, Dorian removes his fingers from over Victor’s mouth. Red stains his lips like a butchered clown. Dorian’s fingers card through his hair, mussing it with spit and blood.

Ethan’s hands fold, large and secure, on Victor’s waist. He settles himself, and Victor tenses. He’s large. _Impossibly_ large, but Victor cannot even clench himself against the intrusion. He’s been too unwound, a pang of emptiness left behind by the absence of Ethan’s mouth.

It’s...strange. It’s so strange when Ethan presses forward. A sudden force that pushes Victor open. He stops at the tip, hands weighing Victor to the mattress. Victor gasps. It’s instinct to try to close his legs, to want to pull himself up the bed. But his body feels like liquid, unwilling to move. His insides warm and slick, demanding more.

Ethan continues onward, inching forward. Victor feels his eyes, ever-attentive. But he can’t school his face to calmness. His bloody mouth pops open, he tips his head back with a startled “ah!” that earns a thumb up the center of his forehead.

“There we are, doctor,” Dorian praises. “Isn’t it divine?”

But it isn’t, it’s torture - because it _isn’t_ torture. It isn’t supposed to be like this. It does not hurt. Victor secretly hoped it would. The pressure fills him up like a hot air balloon. His muscles tremble, and his hands ball in their binds.

Ethan’s fingers scratch into Victor’s waist. He groans and juts forward, unknowingly increasing the fill. He’s stuffed full and too loose to protect himself. His back arches from the mattress, and his ankle binds pull in protest.

“It's all right, Victor." Victor latches to the soft tremor in Ethan's voice. “Goddamn, you’re good.”

Words escape Victor, sifting from his mind like sand through open fingers. His mouth gapes when Ethan rocks back, a moan stuttering out when he’s filled again. Faster this time, the sound of skin and oil. A glance finds Dorian smiling his approval, and his good hand wrapped around himself. His cock, erect, pulled in time with Ethan’s thrusts. The bastard is _getting off_ on this…

Ethan snaps into him, and Victor’s defiance breaks in a cry. It feels remarkable, and terrible. Victor is too vulnerable. He wants to shut his knees, he wants to hide as far from here as possible. It isn’t right to be touched in such a manner. Not by a man, not by Ethan. It says too much about Victor. His poetry, his mystery, torn apart by the reality of the flesh. Victor is a man, like any other man. One of slight build and more delicate countenance. In this room, under hot eyes, he can be no more than this.

Ethan winds a gentle hand around his cock. He thrusts deeper, somehow. It should not be possible to take more of Victor than he already has. Victor whimpers. His heart is pounding.

“Good boy,” Dorian says above him. “Nearly there.” If only Victor were close enough to spit in his face.

Ethan’s waist snaps forward. Spots dance before Victor's eyes. His entire body throbs like an open wound. Ethan strokes him in encouragement. Victor yelps. His limbs have gone to mush. If Ethan feels him clench, maybe he’ll end this. If Victor could only deny him. But he can’t, he’s gelatinous, Ethan’s to possess.

Dorian draws bloody patterns on his face. Groans his own enjoyment as he watches, cock pumped towards his goal.

Victor's vision turns into stars. A noise strangles out of him, a wounded animal at the end of a rifle. His pleasure is too _big_. Victor moans and writhes, but he’s unable to stop Ethan. Again, heat shoots through him. Victor cries out, claws at rope and bedsheets.

“There you go,” Ethan encourages hoarsely. “Ride it out. That’s it.” It's humiliating, obscene. Victor's intimacy put on display like a bloody carnival act!

But then, maybe he deserves nothing more than this...

Ethan fills him to the brink, and Victor collapses in tremors. He shatters, screams, terror and wonder tangled together. He hears a groan of pleasure, a laugh. Everything goes black.

***

Someone is knocking at the door.

Victor blinks sticky eyes open. It’s daytime, and there is an imprint of his own hand on his face. He grimaces, sits up to a shock of pain down his back. He’s fallen asleep at his table.

Something clatters to the floor, and Victor jumps. He stares down at the syringe, empty on the floorboards. A leather strap is still wound around his arm. The crook of his elbow is blistered purple.

The knocking continues, a heavy fist that refuses to be ignored. Victor scrambles for the needle, tucking it back into his parcel. “Coming, for God’s sake!” voice still rasping from sleep. He tears off the leather strap and hides his kit beneath a stack of his papers. His brain is sluggish from the drugs.

When Victor stands, he nearly collapses. Pain reverberates through his legs. Victor grits his teeth, stumbling back against the table. What an odd consequence of the needle. It’s been known to leave headaches, sometimes numbness in the arm. But this soreness is new, raw and overwhelming.

He answers the door, and - strange - it’s Mister Chandler, in his usual unremarkable dress. His overcoat brushes against the backs of his legs. Victor frowns, both at his appearance here and...something else. There is something Victor is not remembering. Something that makes unease flutter in the pit of his stomach.

“What do you want?” Victor grumbles.

“We’re needed at the house." Ethan’s narrowed eyes take in Victor’s appearance. “Did you just get up?”

“Worked late,” Victor snaps. “A foreign concept to someone who does nothing, I’m sure.”

Ethan rolls his eyes. “You coming or not?”

“Yes, yes.” Victor limps to his coat rack and pulls the one garment there around himself.

He frowns and touches the side of his neck. Is...that a scar he feels?

When he returns to the door, concern has replaced Ethan’s annoyance. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Victor mutters, “and I’m the doctor here. Move.” Ethan steps aside to allow Victor out into hall. Bodies litter the staircase in various states of illness and drug use. Ethan leads the way, slow enough to let a wincing Victor keep up.

Outside, the air is cold and tastes of metal. Snow soon, no doubt. The flavor makes Victor shiver, a forgotten fear churning in his gut. He stuffs his hands deep into his coat pockets.

“You…” Ethan pauses, frowning at Victor’s scowl.

Victor knows the worry on the tip of his tongue, and he wants nothing to do with it. It’s bad enough that they've formed this alliance of necessity in Sir Malcolm’s employment. The last thing Victor needs is to pretend he and Ethan will ever be more than that. Victor despises Americans, Ethan Chandler above all.

Maybe Ethan senses his thoughts. Or maybe something else makes his unasked question dissolve with a resigned sigh. “Nevermind,” Ethan mumbles. “Let’s go.”

*The End*


End file.
